


Ironing Out the Kinks

by AtlinMerrick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Always about joy, And joy, Clothes Kink, Food Kink, Food Sex, It's about sex, Kink Exploration, Lingerie Kink, M/M, Public Sex, Scent Kink, Sex, different kinds of sex, honey/bee kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-04-23 20:10:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4890460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are curious men. Curious men explore. Curious men who are in love explore...each other.</p><p>Herein are teeny tiny tales of some of those kinky explorations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eat Your Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a buzzy little surprise for Sherlock.

Sherlock hadn't shut up the entire ninety minute drive to the farm, trying every trick he knew to make John divulge their destination and its purpose. Then, when they got there and he realized what his anniversary gift was, he'd actually become so excited he couldn't speak. Once the bees were all over his body, from brow to breastbone to wrists, he wouldn't have been able to utter a word if he'd wanted to.

No matter, the beekeeper-farmer had kept up a running commentary for both of them, though neither John nor Sherlock really listened. Sherlock was too busy humming to the bees dancing on his body, while John was diverted by his lover's breathless giggling and giddy trembling, and by what John knew he'd be doing in about, oh, an hour.

Well, it had been two because the beekeeper let Sherlock take his own sweet time with those bees. But not too far down the farm's dusty drive, in a wooded hollow, back pressed against their rental car, trousers at his ankles and John on his knees in front of him, it had taken Sherlock just about no time at all to dig his fingers into John's shoulders and come.

It'd be long years later before they did it again, but they would do it again. And again. John promised.

_So I discovered four tiny snippets I had on LiveJournal that I never published here. I decided to put two up today, then I'll add more, partially because I love the idea of publishing wee tiny snippets as busier times permit, but also because there are kinks I love reading about but about which I'm not sure I want to write. While John and Sherlock together learn what they like it, I'm going to hitch a ride and figure that out, too. Do please join me—and prompt, too!_


	2. The Upside (Down)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock will tell you: Some interruptions are very, very good.

People think Sherlock's the one without boundaries, but when it comes to sex it's usually John walking right up to the borders of propriety, yelling "Geronimo," and leaping fearlessly from the side of good-taste and over to fuck-awesome.

Which explains how Sherlock went from doing an experiment at the kitchen table, to laying on his _back_ on the kitchen table, to having his head hanging over the _side_ of the kitchen table, to having John's cock in his _mouth_ as he lays on his back with his head hanging over the side of the kitchen table, hands clutching John's hips so hard there'll be smudgy little bruises over the man's hipbones come morning.

Got all that?

Doesn't matter. What matters is that _this_ might be the very definition of deep throating, and _this_ feels so brain-rattlingly good that John can't speak much less give directions or even quite breathe properly.

Doesn't matter. The panting, the keening, John's fists in his hair? They're all the instruction Sherlock requires and also all he needs to get so hard that just the brush of snug cotton pants against his cock is enough to bring him quite close to the edge of _oh god yes._

Finally, what _does_ matter is that when John doubles over him coming, then slides his hand _just so_ between Sherlock's legs, they leap together over the borders of propriety and land squarely on that rattling kitchen table, laughing so hard into each other's mouths that you know John _will_ jump again. And again. And Sherlock? He'll follow.

He will _always_ follow.

_These are less kink explorations than vignettes of what John and Sherlock try, think to try, or want to try. Whatever this turns out to be, I _can_ tell you inspiration will come from your prompts _and_ at some point from a [series of stories by Philalethia.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/204614) My newest kink, oh yes..._


	3. Don't Blink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Keep looking at me, John!"

"Don't close your eyes."

John is _not_ closing his eyes, John is _blinking._ Blinking isn't closing, it's…it's blinking. Which doesn't at all count as closing and even if it did John is not going to get buggered up the arse without blinking because he won't be able to concentrate on the buggering. And the whole point of this experiment is to see if staring into each other's eyes while they have sex makes the sex better and since their sex life is pretty great John _has_ to concentrate if he's going to detect any kind of improvement.

"Keep looking at me, John!"

This is Sherlock's fault of course. He's the one who'd read an article claiming strangers experience a dramatic increase in feelings of intimacy if they simply gaze at one another for a few minutes.

"I am looking Sherlock. And what I'm seeing is annoy—oooooh?"

How this ended up with them staring at one another via the sitting room mirror, John standing on two shifting piles of books and clutching the mantel while Sherlock pumps away behind him, John's not sure but at this point he's no longer…

"Shhherlock."

…no longer…

_"Shhhhherlock."_

…he's…

"It's…oh fuck, oh _yes!"_

An hour later Sherlock is writing up experiment notes beside a roaring fire he swears smells delightfully musky. John just stares at him, giggling occasionally.

_So this is not one of the old four, this is a new one written last night after Moonflower75 prompted with the fine idea of them buggering at the mantel while looking into each other's eyes. And indeed[staring into your partner's eyes](http://abc7.com/family/video-how-to-connect-with-anyone-in-just-4-minutes/520468/) may increase intimacy. Who knew!_


	4. Follow Suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a few ways to get someone's attention...

"We're going to have to get her attention."

John gazes into their wardrobe. He looks over his eight pairs of Italian shoes, forty ties, plethora of French cuff shirts, and ten perfectly-tailored suits. He smiles serenely. When you work beside the world's only detecting princess—who attires himself in bespoke _everything—_ you yourself must also cut a certain dash.

"Her?" John selects a deep auburn tie and one of heather grey, holds them to his cream-coloured shirt, studies both in the wardrobe mirror.

"Yes, her," Sherlock says, dressing behind him. "The designer's an in-bred idiot. He thinks rococo is some sort of chocolate."

John settles on the auburn; it goes well with the grey at his temples. "I noticed. I'd hate to know what he thinks a priest's hole is."

Sherlock laughs. "It's the designer's quote unquote 'aid' we need. The family pays _her_ to keep _him_ going. She's the trend spotter, the planner, the real decision maker. If we can get her attention at the fête, we'll get that pin code."

"Well then, we best dress up pretty my love," John says, smugly patting his perfectly tied Trinity knot. He turns to Sherlock. And drops his jaw.

Cashmere socks in midnight blue on a pair of long-toed feet? Check.

Over these Armani monk strap shoes in gleaming black? Check.

A Dolce & Gabbana midnight blue cotton shirt two sizes too small? Check.

Bespoke Givenchy suit coat and trousers in black? Check.

A matching skirt skimming just above Sherlock's knees? Che—

Wait. What?

John stares at the beautifully tailored skirt-suit-combo thing. His cheeks flush. His neck grows hot. He licks his lips. God damn it he's going to get hard tonight, he already knows he's going to get hard.

Sherlock drifts close, grinning and smelling faintly of wickedness. He runs a thumb down John's wet lips and whispers, "Oh, she won't be able to resist you."

_A small tweak of this Givenchy beauty and here's[Sherlock in that outfit](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/130296491084/fic-follow-suit-there-are-a-few-ways-to-get). The most recent in Chryse's delicious series about [John and Sherlock's sexual fantasies](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/11230969) inspired this wee tale. Thank you Chryse! _


	5. Damsel in Distress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes rescue is easy peasy...

In his panic he'd lost count again, but Sherlock was certain there were at least one hundred of them, and—

"Agh!"

Two hundred! There must be two hundred now and he knew for sure Regent's park had at _least_ that many waterfowl because he'd had a case here just last year and perusing the duck, swan, and goose census had been vital to its successful—

"No!"

Three hundred! There was almost certainly three hundred of the pugnacious creatures now, with more arriving every sec—

"Stop!"

Sherlock danced in place, a panicky little toe-tip ballet that did not one bit discourage the clucking, quacking, waddling, hissing flock away from his shins or his beautiful Belstaff.

"John!"

To the hem of which electrostatically clung the half kilo of teeny tiny bird seed Sherlock had accidentally poured down his entire front as he arm-wavingly made a pedantic point to Lestrade while talking on his mobile.

"Shoo!"

A mobile which probably flew into the lake behind him when he started flapping his arms, but that was _fine,_ just fine, he could always get another mobile, but _this_ particular Belstaff hasn't been available for years, and—

"Oh god, not the _lining!"_

The good doctor Watson had not heard the first plaintive call of his damsel, busy as he was pulling his battered brogue from a mucky, sucky bit of mud by the paddling pond. However…

_"Jooohn!"_

…at that second cry, John turned to see his darling standing on tip-toe, clutching fistfuls of wool, and surrounded twenty deep by every waterfowl in the park.

Fuck the shoe.

A short, straight-backed march brought John to the outside edge of the fluttering feeding frenzy. He performed reconnaissance then decided to use the most convenient weapon at his disposal. With one shoeless foot he gently pushed aside bird after bird after bird, until—

"John!"

Instinctively Sherlock reached out, instinctively John swept him up into a bridal carry, each man held the other close, and easy peasy John Watson rescued his one true love from the peckish horde.

Then later. Well…later.

Here's a fact: Some things are no one's business but the men whose sweet business it is. So there will be many things the world never knows about the legendary Holmes and his Watson, oh a great many things. Things like how, after making love that night, the Baker Street boys tried something gentle, something new.

Sat snug on their bed, a pile of pillows around him, John spread legs and arms in invitation. Sherlock crawled into then curled small within that warm nest, held to John's chest like a baby, some would say. Yes, that's what some would say.

John would say he held him like something precious and rare. Like his own heart. Yes, that's it, John held Sherlock like his own slow-beating, contented heart.

_1butterfly_grl1 wonderfully suggested one of the boys rescuing the other from geese, which made me think of how much people loved Sherlock clutching at his coat in[Right As Rain](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4361579/chapters/10063205). Thank you 1butterfly_grl1!_


	6. Two Minute Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If they'd tried to do it this way, it never would have worked.
> 
> Fortunately they didn't try.

Frankly, if they'd _tried_ to do it this way it never would have worked, John can tell you that right now. So it's good they didn't try because the memory that they _succeeded_ is a sustaining one, something John's pretty sure he'll remember when they're eighty-something and can't get it up without a three hour nap and a winch.

To be fair, they were primed, _seriously fucking primed_ after spending four hours watching extremely high-class, hard-core porn (for a case of course; sometimes John thinks even his breakfast is secretly for a case). But they had to take the train home (also case-related; don't ask), and it was due in two minutes.

So yeah, they didn't _try_ to come as fast as they could—that would have virtually guaranteed sweary frustration for both and waning erections (despite Sherlock's later denials), yet it was hard to argue with trousers full of aching cock, and a railway platform midnight-empty.

So they looked at one another, fevered expressions said _why the fuck not,_ Sherlock gripped John's waist, and they proceeded to rub and hump and buck against each other, they pinched, pulled, cupped, and caressed, they rutted and groaned and gritted teeth and within fifty three seconds Sherlock had fired off and not quite eleven seconds later John followed him.

The train was on time.

_This is one of the original four I talked about in the first chapter, you can tell because it's short. (Excuse my eye roll at myself.) Hope you are enjoying this wee series. Don't forget to prompt if you so desire. Thank you!_


	7. Quiet As They Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They can be silent.
> 
> They do know how.

Generally they don't get drunk in public and this right here is why. It makes them do stupid, sexy things in another person's loo at a New Year's eve party simply to see if they can.

And oh good god they can. And do you want to know another thing they can apparently do? Have sex in total, utter, absolute silence.

Even though John's sitting on the edge of the vanity bare-bottomed, legs wrapped around Sherlock's waist, eyes squinched closed so hard he's seeing stars, and even though Sherlock, trousers just barely pulled down, is thrusting into John's arse like there's possibly not going to be a tomorrow, neither man is so much as grunting.

Hands pressed to one another's mouths they make no sound in that diminutive space as Sherlock drills into his sweetheart, the raucous noises outside really _just right outside._ In that tiny flat the party is less than two metres from where they're screwing like teenagers and though John was sure Sherlock couldn't be silent, and though Sherlock was sure Sherlock couldn't be silent, the only thing anyone hears when Sherlock comes is the imperceptible sound of teeth biting tenderly at flesh, and of Sherlock's belt buckle chuckling softly to itself.

 _This is the final of the original four I had written a few years ago. Again, you can tell because it's_ short. _Do let me know what you think please. Aaaand, I'm going to write an Advent series for 2015, as I've done in other years. Please provide me links to images you like as prompts? They can be of anything except fandom artwork as I can't reproduce that here. Thank you!_


	8. A Tribe of Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't know what will happen next.
> 
> If he ever said that that's not part of the allure of what they're doing now, of what they've become, oh Sherlock Holmes would be _such_ a liar.

The first time John does it Sherlock holds his breath, the opposite of what John is doing, which is breathing in.

In.

In.

In as deep as he can go and then a quick huff out, as if exhaling is boring so has to be done fast. Then there he is again, pressing his nose against Sherlock's testicles, then into the sweaty hair around his now-flaccid cock, and John's breathing in and out and sighing as if over a wine's heady bouquet.

Sherlock asks because Sherlock will almost always ask except the times he doesn't because he's gone suddenly shy.

"What?"

That's all he says because John will fill things in if Sherlock shuts up and lets him. He often doesn't, but here, in bed together for only the ninth time, Sherlock says that one word and waits for what'll happen next because he doesn't know, has no clue what John will reply. If he's ever said that that's not part of the allure of what they're doing now, of what they've become, oh Sherlock would be _such_ a liar.

John closes his eyes, breathes, says, "You smell…"

He drags the second word out, a meditative, rising hum so that Sherlock knows it's not a declarative statement, it's a beginning.

"…heavy. Thick."

Arms drape-tight around Sherlock's wide hips, body nested between Sherlock's legs, John bows his head slowly and again breathes in, savouring, saving.

He nuzzles into hair, under bollocks, the crease of Sherlock's thighs, then back, grinning and smearing his face in the moist mess they've made.

He giggles and Sherlock can hear his voice drop while he does it and he knows, Sherlock already knows John's going to do that voice, the one he did once and they both called _the narrator,_ the man who explains.

"You smell like…my tribe. I belong where this scent is. It's my boundary, my edge, when I can't smell this…this _us_ any longer, I'm too far from home and I need to come back, where you are, where we…"

Ten weeks, eleven, it seems too soon for them to say so much, but it isn't. A man who saves the life of a man the day they meet, well there's a great deal of empty formality passed through right quick. So many walls torn down or walls that never went up.

They have known each other not quite three months but in this borders-blurred world of fast-forward intimacy, it might as well be years. So it's not too soon to say so much.

"Here, here on you, it's the scent of us and I want it everywhere. Inside me—" He takes a deep, deeper breath, holds it, huffs out hot after awhile. "And…" He nuzzles with his nose again and again and again, marks his face, hair, with their sweet sweaty come mess, all over everywhere.

John breathes him in and in and in.

_Home. We. Us._

The words, the breathing, the _all_ of it…Sherlock gets hard again, soft-hard, not-ready-yet hard, but _yes_ hard. _What you said_ hard. _Us, we, home_ hard.

A tribe. A tribe of two.

 _That_ sort of hard.

_I have this head canon that Sherlock's scent after sex is as lavish as his body, as dramatic, as gorgeous. I realised today I needed to write about the first time John displays his love of that scent. Also I outright stole the phrase "savouring, saving" from one of Magikspell's Tumblr ficlets. Go read her tales,[her voice is remarkable](http://archiveofourown.org/users/magikspell/pseuds/magikspell)._


	9. Lickety Split

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has plenty of unreasoned prejudices.

John has plenty of unreasoned prejudices.

He does not think much of Van Dyke beards, space travel, black olives, or the prettiness of his own penis, for example. This is not the same as saying he prefers goatees, sailing ships, green olives, or Sherlock's penis, except that last one, yes, yes, of course he does.

This by way of saying that right now John's looking at his own knickers-covered cock in the bedroom mirror and the good doctor is having himself several thinky thoughts. Those thoughts are these:

Lacy black looks good against pale skin. As John is Anglo-Saxon English right on down to his received pronunciation he is, of course, pale. Not as pale as Sherlock but then no one's as pale as Sherlock. Except maybe milk.

Anyway, the point is that black lace seems to compliment the complexion of the peaky, so John is surprised to see that his penis, snugged all up in silky panties of frilly-sheer black, presents rather prettily.

Another thought John is having concerns high heels. If Sherlock is keen to see if John is as sexy in pretty things as he himself is, high heels are going to be next. John will kill himself.

Oh, not out of any sort of melodrama mind you. It's just that he suspects a man as rock-steady as himself is, by the nature of that _rock-_ ness, lacking in the, um, gazelle-ness needed to move around in stilettos without breaking his neck. He is sure to trip and that's the end of that.

John will turn out to be wrong about this, but that is a revelation for another day.

Moving on to John's penultimate thinky thought as he gazes at his naked-but-for-black-knickers body in their bedroom mirror: As pretty as the panties are, as lovely as the black looks against his wan skin, wearing these has not done one little thing for his libido. Which is to say, John Watson is standing in front of the mirror soft as a marshmallow.

And now to John's final realisation: That is going to disappoint the hell out of Sherlock.

As with underestimating his own future ability to strut in high heels, John is wrong about this too, which he discovers when he looks at Sherlock's reflection.

Sherlock is not looking at John's soft penis, no. Sherlock's not looking at John's front at all. He's looking at his back. Specifically at his bum.

And Sherlock's expression is, oh my, his expression is _expressive._

His gaze, riveted on John's arse and the slit up the back of John's new frilly knickers, is saying…

_What I am seeing right now is better than a cup of eyeballs in every colour of the human rainbow._

His open panting mouth is sighing…

_What I am seeing is prettier than the[decomposition of mercury(II) thiocyanate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsqERBp3wDs)._

And his tongue moving round in his mouth eel-slow and searching…

Oh that says nothing. That _does._ And what it does is take Sherlock to his knees behind John, places big, big hands gentle at John's hips, and helps him whisper, "Let me, oh, _oh."_

John doesn't answer in words, but with the haze of heat now rising off every inch of his skin. With the fingers of both hands spreading. Each a carnal Morse code begging _open…open…open me._

Sherlock dips a spit-wet finger into the panty's slit. He gasps because that's what this is about, it's about that little slit and fluttery-fingering John's arsehole through it, it's about how indecent that is, how _naughty._

Sherlock presses his forehead against the cheek of John's rump and breathes against John's hole, pants fast so John can feel the wetness.

Then with a thumb Sherlock tugs the slit open just enough, and his wriggle-wet tongue…dips in.

_Okay…*whew*…so, Cemm asked for the boys in frilly knickers and rimming. As I've already explored the kink of Sherlock wearing pretty panties, I wondered how John felt about them. Now I need a lie down._


	10. Full Body Heave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the kink that will earn John his express pass to hell.
> 
> And yet he's going to get Sherlock to do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised I'd say this in the sweetest of dulcet tones: Fuck you 221b_hound for inspiring this story, just fuck you very much. *mwa!*

It's not sexy. It isn't. No, no, it's _not._

Except it is and John thinks of all the fetishes in whose neighbourhoods they've dallied, of all the kinks they have explored, it is _this_ one that buys him an express ride to hell.

And yet…John pushes the tiny little tea plate across the restaurant table and even closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock does the thing Sherlock always does when faced with a food he does not understand: he eats more of it.

Because here's the thing: Sherlock's a genius and there's something about the wiring of that kind of brain that defaults to disbelief. About some things. Specifically, with this genius, about food things.

In their line of work John and Sherlock come across a whole shit ton of Not Good. Containers of carrion beetles. Bottles of B+ blood. Flagons of fingers. And food. So much food. Poisoned food. Rotting food. Vomited food. _Motive_ food.

It's this last kind of food that always makes them curious. When someone's willing to kill for a crème brûlée recipe, you kind of want to taste that crème brûlée. And when a woman justifies framing her husband for murder by saying _"—and he kept bringing me those terrible, terrible sandwiches made on that terrible, terrible bread,"_ well of course John and Sherlock had to try the damned bread.

After the case was solved of course. Which took twenty minutes, what with Sherlock pacing a couple hallways, and then unveiling the woman's cunning little hiding place built into a back wall on the fourth floor. Inexplicably the husband forgave her and they made up after. Calling the whole thing a two would be charitable.

So anyway, now here they are at Reuvis Near the Axe, the poshest Jewish restaurant in London, and they are ignoring the gnocchi in its white wine-truffle reduction. They haven't given a second glance to the soda bread bruschetta piled with celeriac remoulade and gooseberry chutney, and they've declined the roasted apricot and black cream sherry crumble with its cinnamon-sassafras glaze.

Because John and Sherlock are not in this place to admire the menu, the fretwork ceiling, or the tuxedoed and tattooed bartenders, no.

They are here to try a pumpernickel bread so dense, so confusingly flavoured, so wrong, that a hereditary peer built a secret hiding place in her own mansion so she could pretend to be murdered rather than be offered by her chef husband another sandwich made with the stuff.

The last horrible thing that had sounded _that_ interesting to John and Sherlock was when the entomologist wheedled them into bussing her Amazonian Kissing Cockroach because, "You'll see, he tastes of flowers!" Except he hadn't, no, he'd tasted of the bird feces on which he lived and which had probably grown him to his gargantuan three-inch size.

But that was neither here nor there. What was here, now, was a tiny carafe of cold gin, ignored, and there, a plate of pumpernickel bread.

The bartender herself had brought these things over. She'd put the carafe and the plate down and smiled at them. Her tattoos had seemed to smile at them. Later they would understand that these were not kind smiles.

Sherlock had said, "You first," but John didn't hear him because John was busy doing belly breathing, self-talk, and using calming visualisations as he stared at the plate. When he finally noticed that Sherlock was talking—

"Are you talking?"

—he also realised what he'd said.

"Right. Okay. Fine. It's...it's food. In a restaurant. A flash restaurant. The stuff…it can't be poison or anything. It—"

Sherlock shoved the plate toward John. John scowled. Okay fine, it was _fine._ He'd eat the stuff because John can do that. Eat weird stuff. In Afghanistan he once sucked on a palmful of hot desert sand because someone had dropped an entire tube of Sherbet Fountain onto it and John was so god damn home sick it was either suck or cry. (He cried later anyway.)

Right. So he could eat some _bread,_ surely.

John straightened his shoulders, pulled the plate the rest of the way toward him picked up the bread took a bite rolled it around his mouth chewed it a bit and then John Watson rose from his chair and walked from the room and went to the gents and spit the bread in the toilet and retched awhile and rinsed his mouth and finger-combed his hair and returned to his husband and sat down and took the tiny carafe of gin Sherlock didn't seem to know he was clutching and knocked back half of it.

"Not bad. Now you."

John smiled. It was a lot like the bartender's smile. Sherlock tentatively smiled back because Sherlock is not very good at some things. Like understanding that John's really, really, really obvious lies are _lies._

Before he tackled the bread, Sherlock reached for some liquid courage. John would not release the carafe. Sherlock nodded. _Right. Okay, fine._ Sherlock proceeded to tackle the bread. He picked up the plate upon which three and three quarter slices of pumpernickel sat and he squinted at it. The stuff was kind of…black. Brown-black, if he was being charitable. And it looked…impenetrable. There were none of those airy little holes bread has. Sherlock brought the plate close and sniffed. He recoiled and made a moue. It was a confused moue. A moue of confusion.

Sherlock put the plate back on the table and his hands in his lap. He looked at John's hands. John was still holding the carafe really, really firmly. Right, it was fine. It was just _bread._

Sherlock picked up a piece of the stuff—and with no further ceremony he stuffed the stuff in his mouth and chewed quickly.

Then he chewed a sort of medium quickly.

Then he chewed slowly.

And then Sherlock stopped chewing and looked appalled. This? To avoid swallowing this was _totally_ worth hiding in a cramped cupboard and pretending you'd been murdered. And yet, know this: Sherlock being Sherlock, every cell of his body tends to respond to things. Especially bad things. So when he puts a thing in his mouth that his mouth does not want, somehow Sherlock's mouth doesn't push it out, it takes it _in._

Meaning that, despite the fact that the bread smelled of ammonia and bad dreams, that it had the mouth feel of sawdust bound together with motor oil, and aside from the fact that it tasted of sour laundry and burned treacle, Sherlock swallowed.

Nothing happened for one full second and then Sherlock briefly doubled-over in a full body heave so violent that his elbows flapped, his heels rat-tatted the floor, he dropped open his mouth as if to let out the nine furies of hell and this, right here, is where _not right_ and _not okay_ and very much _not_ _fine_ came in to play because John had a perfect freeze-frame recollection of last summer when he stroked Sherlock off at the same time as slow-fucking him with a vibrating glass dildo and Sherlock had come so hard he doubled-over, heels digging into the mattress, mouth open in a silent moan, and despite the fact that Sherlock was right this moment actively shoving his finger down his throat to vomit up the bread, John was thinking with a great deal of confusion and guilt _Jesus Christ I am so turned on right now._

And Sherlock noticed. Audible respiration, flushed cheeks, slicking tongue…of course Sherlock noticed. Index finger barely tickling his tonsils, Sherlock paused.

Their eyes met. Sherlock's eyes said, _Really?_ John's eyes replied, _That depends._ So Sherlock's eyes said, _On?_ So John's eyes said, _Well, on whether you're okay with it or not okay with it. If you're not okay with it I'm going to lie to your face and say until I'm dead that that whole heavey-retchy thing didn't turn me on. If you_ are _okay with it, it then depends on whether you want to bugger me in the men's toilets—pretty posh in there; they have Egyptian cotton hand towels—or wait until we get home._ In reply Sherlock's eyes skittered back and forth a couple times, then they said, _Here. Here is good,_ and Sherlock sat up straight, stopped poking his epiglottis and stood.

Once in the roomy, wood-paneled cubicle Sherlock took the vibrating glass dildo out of his pocket. At the question in John's eyes Sherlock's eyes replied _Sometimes I just carry it around._

A second later John took some lube from his suit pocket. His eyes said _Same here._ A few moments after that Sherlock Holmes-Watson popped an entire slice of pumpernickel bread in his mouth and swallowed. His body tried to expel its wretched cargo with a complex series of muscle clenchings, groans, and whispered pleas. John Watson-Holmes moaned, turned, dropped his trousers, and spread his own arse cheeks.

Neither of them spoke—not with their mouths or eyes or anything else—for the next twenty-five very good minutes.

 _For this story I combined the name of two Jewish restaurants so I wasn't somehow besmirching either of them, then I added Axe because St. Mary Axe is the East London street on which I think the restaurant should be, then I stole about twelve things from both restaurant menus and combined them into the three dishes mentioned here and all of this is to say that the bread, the pumpernickel bread?_ That _is the one real thing here and the whole reason I wrote the story and why in this story, just this one time, Sherlock is me. Me when I visited 221b_hound in Melbourne and bought some[terrible, terrible pumpernickel bread](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/144502276389), brought it home, and responded so lavishly to its awfulness—with Sherlock's exact same disbelief, repulsion, and full body heave—that 221B said, "You have to write a story about this now." And so I have. I'm sorry. You're welcome._


End file.
